tea_for_one raze how come twenty-four hours sometimes seem to slip into days? some fleeting flu bereft of nausea short-circuits my editing impulses. all the words i've known leave me when i'm sucking on this cigarette. my pockmarked binder returns to me with black circles burned into the margins of lined pages that have never felt the lash of my pen. i swear i can hear children playing on the other side of the window, though i'm nowhere near any other living thing. i'll spend the rest of my life searching for something i only dreamed i heard once when i was too sick to hold onto anything my mind had to give. a minute seems like a lifetime, baby, when i feel this way. 230326 what's it to you? who go blather from